


Mostly Myron - Dragon Age Ficlets

by MyronMuse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Adamant Fortress, After Kirkwall, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fluff, Fluffyfest, Friendship, Gen, Goodbyes, Grey Warden Joining, Grey Wardens, Guilt, Honesty, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-02 06:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15790545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyronMuse/pseuds/MyronMuse
Summary: A collection of short stories in the Dragon Age setting. Most have come from prompts via prompt generators or those found on tumblr. The rating may change as fics come.Most stories will be of my OC Myron Lavellan, but some might feature my headcanon Garrett Hawke, and other OCs Ilensul Lavellan, and Warden-Commander Dairren Tabris. Others may just feature 'randomly generated' Wardens/Hawkes/Inquisitors.Just some stories for fun! :)





	1. "Are we takin' bets?"

**Author's Note:**

> (m!Surana, Blackwall)

**Are we taking bets? (m!Surana, Blackwall)**

 

“And I swear, she just threw down her staff and yanked the tooth out of that dragon's mouth and sauntered away like it was nothin'! Hell, it _was_ nothin'!” The man's great black beard split with his wide grin and hearty laugh as he threw down his cards with feigned disgust, “Bah! Never trust a dwarf in cards!”

 

“Hmph! Damn right!” Oghren smiled with his own devious chuckle as his hands reached out to gather the assembled 'pot' of silver and copper coins from the middle of the card table. “Never bet against a dwarf in his cups. Ye'll lose everytime!” The red-headed dwarf laughed almost gleefully as he moved the pile of money right in front of himself, replenishing his dwindling stash, despite having boasted of his skill (or perhaps luck) just prior.

 

Nathaniel however just grunted and gathered up the cards, shuffling them easily in his hands as his gaze slid over to the bearded man before him. This warden didn't particularly relish this game of Diamondback, sitting here with Oghren, Sigrun, and Thom Rainier. Nathaniel wasn't exactly much of a social man in the best of circumstances, but this situation left even more to be desired.

 

He didn't approve of the Inquisitor being allowed to choose whether or not someone underwent the Joining. Or whether or not Wardens were exiled. The Inquisition, even for all its good, was a political organization, even if they didn't declare allegiance to any single nation. What right had they to say that Wardens were exiled from southern Thedas?

 

Nathaniel understood what had happened out there in the Western Approach. He'd read the reports. Heard the stories. He'd felt the Calling too, just like every other Warden, all over Thedas. But in Warden-Constable Howe's own opinion, this was a Warden crime, and therefore was a Warden matter to deal with. If a Blight broke out in Orlais, and there were no Wardens there to battle it, who then would Orlais or the Inquisition blame when darkspawn ravaged Val Royeaux?

 

Why then was Inquisitor Lavellan allowed to exile all of the Orlesian Wardens to the Anderfels, without so much as a by-your-leave from Empress Celene? The Dalish mage had tried to do the same with the Ferelden Wardens as well, by principle, but had thankfully been sternly rebuffed by King Alistair. The royal former-Warden knew exactly what happened when a country was too isolated during a Blight to allow that to happen.

 

To compound the insult of exile of more than half the Wardens in southern Thedas, the woman had then been allowed to tell Warden-Commander Surana that he 'must' give the Joining to Thom Rainier. Rainier, who'd posed as Warden-Constable Gordon Blackwall for five years, only revealing himself when the guilt of forcing an innocent man, his former subordinate in the Orlesian Imperial Army no less, to hang for his own crimes came to be too much. While Nathaniel supposed it was better late than never, certainly for the man that was spared the noose, it still didn't absolve Rainier of his crimes in Howe's eyes. Being a warden wasn't a joke. This wasn't a game of pretend one could simply stop playing when it wasn't fun anymore.

 

“Hey! You gonna deal or what?!” Sigrun's impatient questioning cut through Nathaniel's brooding. He snorted but dealt the cards, pale eyes focused on the bearded face of Rainier. Howe's 'poker face' was good, certainly better than most, but his steely gaze was clear and sharp just now, showing the 'recruit' just what he thought, even if his thin lips were kept in a firm line that was neither smile nor frown.

 

The card game however, would have to wait. The door to the dining hall of Vigil's Keep creaked open, the bright blonde head of Alim Surana poking through. His face typically serene face warmed with a small smile as he looked at the four who sat with cards and food at one of the long tables. “Thom? Come. It's time.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Warden-Commander Surana was nothing if not optimistic. He always was, no matter how many Joinings he oversaw, a feat that Nathaniel saw as impressive. _'I have to Nate, I just have to,'_ he'd explained once, when Nathaniel had questioned him about it, _'If I didn't try to look at the bright side of all this... I don't think I'd be able to get up in the morning. I can handle the disappointment if something goes wrong. But to go through life without some hope? Wouldn't be worth living.'_

 

The smile had gone from Rainier's lips as he nodded, taking one last sip from his cup of mead before pushing back to stand. Sigrun raised her hand in a salute as he stepped back. Oghren belched loudly, though for him that was as good as wishing him luck. Nathaniel just nodded solemnly as Thom turned to join Alim, and the door to the dining hall closed.

 

After several moments of silence, Sigrun finally began to gather the cards again, “So... we takin' bets?”

 

 

– ** – ** –

 

“ _Join us, brothers and sisters._

_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant._

_Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn._

_And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten._

_And that one day we shall join you._ ”

 

Those were the last words that Thom Rainier expected to hear. Not that he hadn't anticipated going through the Joining. He'd been prepared to do so years before. By the real Blackwall. But after the Warden-Constable's death, he hadn't thought that he really would. Too selfish, too scared to continue on to the closest Warden outpost. Too fearful of being accused of Blackwall's death. He'd wandered for years, under the name of one of the most honorable men Thom had ever met, always frightened that his past would come to haunt him, too scared to let anyone close. Always expecting that he'd die out there in the wilderness, alone.

 

But there he was, with the Commander of the Grey, the Vanquisher of the Archdemon, with his velvety, sotto voice intoning the words that had been spoken at every Grey Warden Joining for centuries. He'd never actually expected to be here. He'd never expected to make it out of that prison in Val Royeaux. The opportunity to make things right, to follow through, to regain his honor was more than he deserved. He took the chalice willingly, and brought it up. Many did not survive the Joining, he knew this. And if he died, he knew it would be justice, for all the wrongs he'd done to others. And so he drank, and darkness enveloped him.

 

What had surprised him more than undergoing the Joining however, was that he came out on the other side. That his eyes had opened once more, and in the firelight of the nearby hearth, could see the youthful, elvish face of the Warden-Commander, smiling down at him, cradling Thom's head gently in his lap. Was this the Fade? The Beyond, as Ellana Lavellan had called it? As his eyes struggled to focus, crossing slightly, Surana's tinkling laugh, like silver bells, rang out in amusement.

 

“You're awake! Good! I was worried you'd take too long, and I'd miss supper!” The elf mage's voice was full of mirth and warmth, nothing at all like the man that Thom had anticipated. And in his current waking befuddlement, only confused him more. Merriment was never something one associated with the 'grim Grey Wardens'.

 

Grunting lowly, Thom struggled to sit up, but managed it, and even got to his feet, with some assistance from Surana. The mage put one slender arm around the larger man's waist, letting him lean a little for support. “You'll get your feet in just a few moments, don't worry,” Alim explained patiently, not seeming upset about his status as crutch, “Undergoing the Joining is... well, it's rather like taking a good blow to the head. Makes you dizzy, blurry vision, nausea, shortened lifespan... all the fun stuff!”

 

Thom coughed and nodded, wheezing out a chuckle, “So I see...” Groaning quietly as he found his balance, he let Alim lead as they began to wander from the Main Hall, and back towards the dining one. “I s'pose I'll have some mixed reactions then, won't I?”

 

Rainier hadn't had much of a chance to speak with the Commander alone since he'd arrived at Vigil's Keep. Socializing with the other Wardens had been enlightening of course; many simply saw him as any other recruit, but some held some grudges over the things he'd done. Some because they'd known the real Blackwall, and Rainier had impersonated him. Others because his Joining was being forced by someone who wasn't a Warden at all. And a few because of what had happened all those years before, to Lord Callier.

 

Surana's slender shoulders shrugged, “Perhaps, but they'll come around, you'll see.” The elf's optimism was heart-warming at least.

 

“Are we takin' bets? There's a few that looked like they wanted to do me in themselves instead of letting the darkspawn blood do the job.”

 

“You'd be surprised. What you'd heard before, about the Wardens 'poking around prisons'?” Words straight out of Dorian's mouth, of course, “Well... they often do. Easily half of the Wardens I've met and recruited have been criminals of some sort. Thieves, murderers, apostates. I don't care about their pasts. I care about what they become.” Surana's warm smile turned to Thom again, “You learn to let go here. They'll let go of your past too, when you do.”

 

Thom wanted to believe, he truly did. But doubt gnawed at him, always. He paused in front of the dining hall door, glancing down at the blonde haired elf, “You can't know that though...”

 

Alim's nose wrinkled a little as his lips curved upwards in a grin, “Are we takin' bets?” And he pushed open the door.

 


	2. What You Don't Want To Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> m!Lavellan, f!Cousland (featuring Myron Lavellan)

**What you don't want to remember. (m!Lavellan, f!Cousland)**

 

The encampment outside the ruins of Adamant was at least quiet at this time of night. Smoke rose from the many fires scattered throughout the maze of tents, and there was the odd one, two, or three soldiers remaining at a few of them, but overall it was quiet save for the low hum of desert insects.

 

A calm scene perhaps, save for the crumbling corpse of a fortress that lay not but a half-mile away, a silent skeleton silhouetted against the brilliant moon that lingered just above the horizon. It was hard to tell from looking at it that hardly a few hours before, it was the scene of a world changing battle. That so many had died there, the paving stones were painted in the blood of the fallen. That demons had roamed over the battlements. That a dragon had landed right on its stones. That it had been the scene where for only the second time in history, mortals walked physically in the Fade.

 

Myron Lavellan however couldn't see just that. Sitting on the slope of a dune, one of his long legs stretched out while the other was bent with his bare foot buried in the still warm sand, held in place by his folded hands pressing just below his knee. Dressed in simple leggings and a fitted sleeveless tunic, he looked less like the 'imposing Inquisitor' most people thought he was.

 

As he gazed out upon the shadowed outline of the ruined fortress, all he could see was the place that he decided the fate of a good person. Where he played god, perhaps unjustly. And how no one seemed to _really_ question him about it. How they all trusted his judgment, as if he knew what he was doing. As if he knew what was best. As if he had the right to decide on the death of a champion. _The_ Champion.

 

Only Cole had come to him after, worried as the spirit always was over him. The lad had tried his best to soothe the hurt, to give him confidence. But like so many times before, Myron simply dismissed the boy as gently as he could, sending him off to go and comfort those in the infirmary, those he needed the spirit's help far more than Myron did.

 

“Hard to believe it stood all that time, huh?” A still rather new voice piped up behind him, startling the Inquisitor, though the hunter had calm enough nerves not to jump. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Elissa Cousland. It took all of Myron's self-control to not automatically wave her off with a dismissive scoff. She was after all simply a shem noble, a group of people rather notorious for not giving a damn about anyone but themselves. But Cousland wasn't like that, and Myron knew it. She was the 'Hero of Ferelden'. The one who slayed the Archdemon of the Fifth Blight. She also had a reputation for having a good head on her shoulders. There was something to say for that, especially these days.

 

And so instead of ignoring her, he nodded, “Hm.” Perhaps not exactly an eloquent response, but it was one at least. He said nothing more for several long moments, as Elissa walked down the dune as gracefully as she could manage, and hunkered down beside him. He stared ahead, keeping his dark gaze fixed on the ruins, rather than on the shem woman he knew was busy scrutinizing him. He could feel her eyes on his profile. Glancing over his dark skin, focusing in on the golden vallaslin that stood out so starkly on his face, the splotches of sunburn that turned brown to near black. He could feel it travel along, up his long, pointed ears, and then back to stare at the side-view of his eye.

 

“So that... spirit,” she finally began, “Cole I think he said his name was. Interesting boy, I'll tell you.” She bent her knees, and stretched out her arms so that her elbows rested on them, letting out a long breath, “Kind of gets on your nerves really. But sorta hard to stay mad at him at the same time. What kind of ungrateful wretch stays angry at someone who is genuinely trying to help them, with no ulterior motive?” She chuckled lowly, without real mirth. “But he said something that... well, I'm not really sure what to make of it.”

 

One of Myron's dark brows arched upward, and his chin moved just an inch or two to cant his head, so that he could see the Warden from the corner of his eye, “Did he? What was that?” The elf's deep, rich baritone voice was smooth, surprisingly so after what had been hours shouting and screaming during the battle, of yelling out orders after, and all that time spent in the dry heat. Had the situation been different, Elissa was sure the sound of it would have sent her shivers right down to some very nice places.

 

“He was... explaining things to me. How he helps people. Getting water for those with dire thirst. Holding the hands of those taking their last breaths. But also... helping people forget. Does he? Or is he meaning that he distracts them?” She at least tried to sound nonchalant, but her interest was far too easy to read.

 

“He makes them forget,” Myron opted not to lie, “I don't know how exactly. I'm no expert on spirits, demons, or the Fade... despite recent events.” His shoulders lifted and then fell again in a lazy shrug, “But however he does it, he plucks away the memory that caused the hurt. Memories of traumatic events, or bad fights, or... well, other things that happen to people I guess. Gives them vague... replacement memories. That woman's former husband didn't beat her, she left him because she didn't approve of his actions. That man's sister didn't die from the pox, she just moved away for school and decided not to write again. That sort of thing.”

 

He paused, turning his head more so that he could look at the Warden-Commander directly. “Thinking of some events you'd rather not know about anymore?” The implication of her curiosity was already out there after all. And he certainly didn't want to be responsible for someone accepting Cole's rather standing offer of forgetfulness without knowing the consequences.

 

Cousland, for her part, toyed with the lacings on the knees of her leather breeches, shrugging lamely, “I guess so. But I'm sure I wouldn't be alone in that, even between just the two of us. I don't want to remember all I do about the Archdemon. How its breath felt when it roared on me. How it smelled. The sound of its voice, in the whispers in my mind,” the woman swallowed heavily, but continued, her voice almost gently cracking, “The arrogance of Rendon Howe's boasting when I confronted him about killing my parents. His men killed everyone. My parents, my sister-in-law, my little nephew, and our innocent servants. The memory of seeing my father on the floor of the kitchen, his hand barely able to hold his own innards in place while he told me to go-” she cut off, turning her head away to press her mouth to her shoulder, and stifle the sob that wanted to wretch free.

 

Myron remained quiet for several long moments, in respect to the grief he could see she still carried from the loss of her family. “You aren't alone in that, Warden-Commander,” he finally murmured, “I'd rather forget the empty, glassy eyes of my dead loved ones. The screams of the children, and the halla when our camp was attacked. How the people we lost in Haven died.” Turning to look back to Adamant, the elf pressed on, “Hawke.” Yes, he certainly wished he could forget Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.

 

“We all have things we don't want to remember. But... they make us who we are.” Myron had to continue, he couldn't leave it at that. His restless mind wouldn't let him. “Commander Cullen is a good man. Perhaps he would have been one if he never went through the things he went through – in the Ferelden Circle, in Kirkwall. But he wouldn't be _him_. He wouldn't be the strategist he is. He wouldn't have the same scruples. The same determination. The same good morals that he indeed has now. He might not have been a good man for a number of years, while he wrestled with his trauma and pain. But he's come out to the other side. It's better, I think, that he has that, than not.” It was perhaps one of the longest speeches Myron had ever given, for all that it was over in just a minute or two.

 

While he assumed by the silence of the previously talkative nature shown by the warrior beside him that she had grown bored, or tired with his rambling, he was legitimately surprised when he felt a weight on his shoulder, as Elissa scooted over the sand to sit right next to him, and rested her blonde head there. Inexperienced with such familiarity, Myron tried not to shift too much beneath the slight weight, a little worried he would offend. Unsure of what else to do, he lifted his opposite hand and reached over, giving the woman's messy hair a gentle pat.

 

A good move, it turned out, as she let out a few breaths of a silent chuckle, “I'm sorry for... _this_. I just... I don't know if I can be alone right now. And... well, you're probably the only other person here who can really understand some of the crap going on in my head.”

 

“Me?” Another arch of his brow came, as he glanced down to her quizzically.

 

“Well, you're the only one here that has the 'It's up to you to save the world' expectation hanging over your head, like I did back then. Hell, like I do still sometimes.” Seeker Pentagahst had rather made it clear that Elissa Cousland had been her first choice for Inquisitor, before the events of the Conclave.

 

Myron's chest rumbled with a chuckle of his own, “I suppose I do. Don't worry, if I could, I'd let you have _all_ the fun,” he replied, his chuckling only continuing at the feeling of the woman's fingers pinching his side in retaliation.

 

“Oh, you're a right bastard, you know that?”

 

“Yes, I know. It's part of my charm.”

 

“Keep telling yourself that.”

 

“I just did.”

 

“Right...” Further arguments died away as the Warden-Commander pressed herself just a little closer against the Inquisitor's side, until he was forced to move his arm, or have it squished against him. With only a little hesitance, Myron settled his dark hand against the side of her waist in a more comfortable side-embrace, allowing the woman to shift her positioning so that more of her golden head rested on his shoulder.

 

“You're a surprisingly comfortable pillow,” Elissa finally offered after taking a moment or two to get herself situated.

 

“So I've been told,” Myron managed a half-smile down to her.

 

“By who?” Perhaps it wasn't her place to pry, but curiosity often got the best of Elissa Cousland, as many other Wardens could attest to.

 

“You.” The elf's half-smile shifted to almost a half-grin at her exasperated expression.

 

“Who else? Are there a legion of ladies that I will have to face in the next few moments for the comfort of your shoulder?”

 

Snorting, Myron could only give his head a single shake, “I don't think so. Just... people from a time I'd rather forget too.” The statement sobered Cousland as easily as a splash of cold water might, but Lavellan didn't allow her to stiffen and pull away. Instead he tucked her just that little bit closer. “Don't worry. It's better that I remember, even if I don't want to,” his small smile returned as his assurances were taken to heart, and both pairs of eyes turned back to the silhouette of the crumbled Warden Fortress in the distance.

 

“You think we could hit it with one of the trebuchets from here?"

 


	3. I don't know what I believe anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter ficlet, stemming from the conversation the (soon to be) Inquisitor and Cassandra have in Haven, when she asks them if they believe in the Maker.

“ **I don't know what I believe anymore” (m!Lavellan, Cassandra Pentagahst)**

 

“I don't know what I believe anymore, if I'm being honest.” Myron shrugged his leather clad shoulders, arms crossing easily over his chest; a defensive position one might think, if he didn't seem so relaxed and nonchalant about it. His dark eyes gazed back at Cassandra without betraying even a hint of discomfort over it.

 

“Truly? You don't believe in your people's 'Creators' either?” While Cassandra had some doubt the 'Herald of Andraste' believed in the Maker, given any number of small comments he'd made here and there, but she hadn't entirely blamed him. He was Dalish after all, and while they were a rather notoriously reclusive people, there were some things even the Chantry knew of them. And their belief in their own pantheon of elven gods was among those tidbits of information. But the Lady Seeker found it strange that he didn't claim belief in them either.

 

The elf's broad shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug, “I don't know really anymore. I was taught all the stories, told of the things they represent. I used to believe. I believed that the Creators cared for us, looked after us, taught us. What else could I believe?” It seemed simple enough, when he was a child. He'd known the Creators were real just as he knew the sky was blue, and water was wet. It had only been when he'd grown older, when darkness had truly come into his life, that doubt had begun to scratch persistently away at that hard-held faith.

 

“But for all that, I've yet to see any proof of their existence. I've seen no prayers answered, and have felt no... spiritual epiphanies that I can recall.” Myron paused to sit down on a nearby crate, shifting his posture so that his palms pressed against his knees, letting him lean forward just a little as he continued, “According to my own people, the Creators are either locked away, or are dead. Maybe both. It's a little vague. That they only speak to us, or do for us in special, sacred places.”

 

His nose wrinkled, brows furrowing over his eyes as he shook his head, his long dreadlocks swinging around his shoulders and arms with the gesture, “Not much of gods then, if you ask me. What sort of deity needs to be in a... sanctioned location to assist?” Myron's expression was somewhat incredulous at the notion of location inhibiting a _god. “_ Not that your Maker is much better. What good is a god if he turns his back on all of his children, and not only that but unleashes the monstrousness of Blight on them... for the crimes of a select few? A mere what... twelve? The crimes of a dozen people condemning thousands, perhaps millions to a life without their Maker. So many people having to repent for the sins of so few...”

 

Cassandra shifted on her feet uncomfortably. It was a notion that had always rather rubbed her the wrong way as well, for all that she still heartily believed in the Maker, and in Andraste as His prophet. While the Chantry 'technically' saw it as blasphemous, Cassandra herself thought that, perhaps, the Maker hadn't turned his back on _all_ the people. Maybe. “I understand your point. I... cannot say that I agree with it. But I do appreciate your taking the time to explain your beliefs, or lack of. And I respect your opinion.” A rather diplomatic response for the otherwise hot-blooded Seeker. She'd done rather well with it, if she said so herself.

 

The corner of Myron's full lips twitched, the most common approximation of a smile he had, “And I thank you for your manners regarding the subject. I'm sure many would be outraged that the 'Herald of Andraste' isn't really sure the woman even existed, much less the chosen of a god. It's appreciated.” Pushing off of his knees, the elven archer stretched his arms above his head as he got to his feet. “Now if only everyone else was so respectful... maybe this whole thing could have been avoided. Mages, Templars, and everyone else fighting for no damn good reason.”

 

He turned to glance back to Cassandra after a few moments of thought, “Do you believe that Justinia's Conclave might have actually succeeded?”

 

The Seeker's eyes flicked downward for a moment as she thought long and hard. It had been a question that had burned in her own mind for some time now, especially as they had become more and more involved, personally, with dealing with the 'conflict resolution'. “I... don't really know what I believe anymore.”

 


	4. "Stay with me tonight"

**"Stay with me tonight" (m!Lavellan/Dorian Pavus)**

 

Dorian reached above his head, stretching as luxuriously as his modest double bed allowed. He felt... indulgent. Sated. Pleased. For the first time in too long a time. It had been nearly four weeks since he'd been able to stretch out on a real bed, no matter how modest. Not to mention the rest of the evening...

 

The Tevinter's silvery eyes slid over to his bed partner, his gaze climbing from the curve of a lusciously round backside, appreciatively over the thick, strong muscles of his back, to those broad shoulders Dorian's fingers just itched to hold onto again. He held off for the moment though, as Myron twisted in his seated position on the mattress to look back at the mage, the tiny quirk of the elf's mouth into that familiar half-smile making both the man's heart, and his stomach, flip over.

 

Myron Lavellan. The Inquisitor. Maker, Dorian didn't know what he'd done to deserve this man in his bed, but in the privacy of his mind (a place he wasn't entirely certain Myron didn't have privy to anyway), he gave thanks. Myron wasn't at all what Dorian had _expected_ of course. It wasn't just that he'd never been with an elf – notwithstanding brothels anyway. The mage thought himself a rather experienced man, not to mention a handsome one, but even he had to admit that the Inquisitor was perhaps the most attractive partner he'd had.

 

He was tall for an elf, only a couple of inches shorter than Dorian himself. His deep brown skin was soft and smooth, darker even than the deep tan the Tevinter possessed. The long, black dreadlocks were fascinating, even when bundled behind Myron's head, as they were now, soft to the touch, and perfect handholds when Dorian sunk his fingers in and pulled deliciously full lips to his.

 

And of course, there were the muscles. Dorian was no waif himself, but elves (and mages too for that matter) tended towards the leaner side. Even warriors and bodyguards back in Tevinter were elegant and sleek, like cats. Myron was lean, leaner perhaps than a human archer might have been, but there was a satisfying bulk to him, honed from years practicing with his bow, from running through forests and fields, from dedicated training. And that muscled frame fit so nicely against Dorian's own.

 

What captured Dorian's eye the most however, and what he gazed gently up at now, was the Inquisitor's face. The smooth line of his defined jaw, the prominent but elegant straight profile of his nose. Deep set, wide, brown eyes, dark as coffee and framed with lusciously long lashes. And then perhaps his favorite – full, well shaped lips, soft and plush, with a well defined cupid's bow. Slow to smile yes, but whenever they did, flutters were sent right to Dorian's chest, and shivers always prickled down his spine.

 

He sighed in contentment as Myron leaned over, supporting his own weight on one hand and pressed a firm kiss to Dorian's lips, suckling gently at Dorian's own cupid's bow before pulling back and letting his dark gaze flicker across the man's face.

 

“It's getting late.” The elf's silky, baritone voice sent shivers down Dorian's spine, the muscles in his abdomen twitching reflexively.

 

“Mmm it is,” even Dorian had to admit it, “But we're not scheduled for anything tomorrow are we? It's been a long trip...” Tilting his head back so that he could look up to Myron's eyes, he gave the most becoming smile in his arsenal, fluttering his own long eyelashes as he smiled. “You _are_ in charge you know... you could actually let yourself sleep in for a change.”

 

A single breath of a silent chuckle, and one of those so very rare smiles graced Myron's lips, “ _Ma Theneras,_ ” Dorian didn't know what the obvious endearment meant, but he knew each time he heard it, he felt a warmth in his chest that was still wholly unfamiliar, which lingered even as his partner continued, “It's late, and I grow tired.” Myron leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Dorian's for a moment. His warm breath, with the lingering scents of mint and citrus still strong, blew gently over Dorian's lips, tickling his curled mustache. “You've worn me out, you see.”

 

The mage knew the reason for Myron's explanation; it had been Dorian's own insistence that they keep the extent of their familiarity a secret. Clinging to excuses of protecting the Inquisitor's reputation, it was Dorian's decision that they did not share a bed overnight, nor share a tent when they were on the road, or hold hands when they sat beside each other in Skyhold's dining hall. That under cover of darkness he would slink back to his room from Myron's chambers, or send the elf out of his with a soft word and a kiss, and never let his eyes linger too long when in the presence of others.

 

It wasn't something he was proud of. Every part of his _screamed_ to claim Myron as his own. To show everyone, to tell the world that he was with him. That it was him, Dorian, the 'evil Magister' who got to wrap his arms around the Inquisitor, to hold him close.

 

But courage had never been one of Dorian's strong suits. And Myron, Andraste bless him, never judged him for it. He simply left that decision in Dorian's hands, never pressed beyond Dorian's comfort. And he never forced an explanation. The elf's taciturn ways were yet another blessing, he was sure of it. He'd never known anyone so... respectful of another.

 

Tonight however, Dorian simply couldn't stand it. After so long without, he didn't know if he could bear having just a few hours with Myron alone. He needed.... he _ached_ in ways that were still unfamiliar to him, despite their now months of 'intimate association'.

 

“ _Melava somniar, ma theneras,_ ” Myron's smile lingered for another long moment before he pressed another gentle kiss to Dorian's lips, his free hand raising to stroke his calloused fingertips along the man's freshly shaven jaw, “Time to dream,” he translated with a delicate nuzzle of his lips, “I will see you again tomorrow, worry not.” And with another soft stroke of his fingers, Myron stood up from the bed, pausing pull on his leggings and tunic before giving Dorian one last, warm glance.

 

Bravery Dorian didn't even know he possessed shot through him as he leaned forward, his hand shooting out to wrap his fingers around his lover's thick wrist, halting his steps and turning him back to see.

 

“Stay with me tonight.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **'Ma Theneras' -- 'My Dream', translation taken from the wikia  
> **'Melava somniar' -- 'Time to Dream', translation taken from the wikia
> 
> This came from a prompt given by hellsdemonictrinity on tumblr


	5. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A potential relationship is cut off before it truly starts by a dark past.
> 
> Cassandra/m!Lavellan (sort of)
> 
> A small snippet that reveals a secret about Inquisitor Myron Lavellan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taken from a few lines from an 'Angst Prompt' on tumblr -- "I did something terrible", “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to forgive me either.”, “If I could go back, I would just walk away.”

“Do you regret it?” Cassandra's voice was cool and distant, Myron didn't need to look at her to know her posture: shoulders held back stiffly, her elegant jaw raised, chin lifted in defiance of her pain. Just as well of course... he wasn't entirely sure he had the courage to look her in the eye in that moment anyway.

 

He'd never really meant to keep this from her. Not especially anyway. Inquisitor Lavellan was known as a private man, but he had never truly been secretive. When asked questions about his past, Myron answered all honestly, he never bothered to lie or dismiss inquiries. He wasn't one to give angry looks, or turn a cold shoulder to those curious enough to ask about him and his personal life. He simply had never been one to volunteer information, especially not _this_ information. By the elf's reckoning, his business was his own.

 

Who then, he wondered, had given the Seeker the notion to question him about his previous romantic 'liaisons'? Cassandra had never been forthcoming with her own, and Myron certainly had never pried. She'd seemed content in letting that aspect of his past remain there. But something had needled at her, bothered her enough that she finally had come to him. 'What happened to your first love?'

 

_Leliana,_ he decided. While the Inquisition's Spymaster had gotten no more direct information about Myron's past – romantic or otherwise – than anyone else had, her keen eyes and knowledge of body language was rather unparalleled. The smallest twitch of an eye, the most minute lift of a brow revealed entire conversations to her. Stoic as the Dalish man was, even he was no match for her perceptiveness.

 

The Spymaster didn't know about what had happened to Anaia, Myron's first love. Leliana had never sat with him or had him explain – that they were intending to become bonded, young and in love. That he'd come back to the Clan early from a hunt and had caught her laying with another when she had promised herself to him. That in his jealousy, and rage, and despair he'd done something terrible, had snuffed out the light of two lives and had changed his Clan forever.

 

She didn't know the years he'd spent in meditation and fasting afterward, the weeks of isolation within his aravel. The work it had taken to change him from the raging, rabid dog he had once been into a man that even if he was not proud of, was only a danger to those who endangered innocents.

 

“Every day.” The answer came from Myron's lips easily and honestly, his voice touched only slightly with hoarseness, trying to calm the strain that it tried to portray. “If I could go back, I would just walk away.”

 

“So why didn't you?” The Lady Seeker was not nearly as successful in hiding her emotions as the elven man she stood by, unable to hide the trembling in her tone. 

 

The pair weren't 'together'. They were friends, not lovers, and Myron knew that he had every right to never tell her what had happened. And that if he did, he had every right not to explain.

 

They weren't together. But there had been some soft glances. Secret smiles by the light of campfires, brushes of their hands as they walked beside each other on missions. When they parted ways back in Skyhold, he would lean over her hand and press his lips to her knuckles, murmuring soft words to her when no one else could overhear, words just for her. They weren't in love, not yet. But they certainly had care for each other, after these months of working together.

 

Myron had no obligation but his own honor to explain himself. “I was... young. Brash, and loud, and utterly stupid.” Finally, Myron turned so that he could settle his dark eyes on hers, his gaze steady and clear despite the pain that pricked his heart, even after all these years. “I was selfish. I thought... I thought that she belonged to me. That she was mine. I thought that I  _deserved_ her. Like she was some sort of... prize. Like she was the reward at the end of a long hunt, instead of a potential partner.” 

 

Turning on his heel, Myron paced along the wall of the armory, his hands clasped behind his back. “I've done something terrible. I don't... I don't expect you to understand. And I certainly don't expect you to forgive me – for either my deed, or my lack of forthrightness in revealing it to you. I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to forgive me either.” There was no world that Myron Lavellan could imagine less than one where he was at peace with himself and his past. That would wouldn't be haunted by his own deeds.  


 

Pausing, the elf looked down at the ground for a moment, eyebrows furrowing as his lips tugged into a frown, “I hope that I wasn't truly evil, back then. That I was simply an unfortunate combination of immature and angry and selfish. But I don't know if I'll ever truly know the answer to that question.”

 

With a long sigh, weary and hurt, Cassandra drew herself up, steeling her spine and strengthening her expression, “I'll let you know if I figure that out.” And with that, she walked past him, her stride long, steady, and sure, as she left him there in the dim glow of the forge.


	6. "Thanks."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (m!Tabris, Varric Tethras) The Warden-Commander, the Hero of Ferelden, arrives in Kirkwall after the Chantry explosion.

Thunder rumbled loudly, echoing off of the stucco walls of Lowtown buildings. Rain came down in sheets, turning the very air grey it seemed, and creating enough darkness and shadow that even in midday, Varric had a hard time seeing through as he kept a look out. Better to look out than in anyway. If he looked in one more time, his heart would break.

 

In the little hovel, whose doorway Varric filled for all that he was 'just' a dwarf, it was quiet. Over the sounds of the storm outside, Master Tethras couldn't hear the occasional soft sigh, or shifting of blankets as those he protected slept and dreamed.

 

Bianca rested on the blonde dwarf's shoulders, his gloved hands squeezing around her grip time and again as he waited still. Their guest would be arriving any minute now. Soon, it would be time. He was just happy that things had finally calmed down out in the city now. Calm as they could be anyway, drowned into submission by the drenching storms that had lasted the past couple of days. No more buildings on fire. No more mages, or abominations, or panicked templars tearing through the streets. Just utter, bleak stillness.

 

The three dark figures stepping out of the grey curtain of rain shouldn't have surprised him, staring out as he had been. Varric was a rogue after all, he didn't normally get caught unawares, even by other rogues. Regardless of his perceptiveness however, the dwarf couldn't quite hide the little jump-start he gave as they showed themselves, and his broad nose wrinkled a little bit as he stepped back and let them in. He had only been expecting one, maybe two to show – their guest, and perhaps Isabela to lead him from the docks. The third figure was a surprise, but as sopping cloaks were pulled away, he knew he shouldn't have been.

 

“Shoulda known you'da been with him, Smooth Talker,” the dwarf grumbled as he shut and barred the hovel's door, shutting out the din of the falling rain outside.

 

The Antivan elf's rich laugh was to be expected, low and silky, and not at all fitting for the rather dilapidated place they were at now. “Come come my fine dwarven friend,” Zevran grinned as he pulled off his soaked cloak, hanging it on the clothesline that had already been set up near the stove, where a fire already burned. “Did you think I would let my sweet Warden come here unescorted? After what happened the last time I was near this very city?”

 

He couldn't argue with that he supposed. With a sigh, Varric finally hefted Bianca off of his shoulder and leaned her against the wall, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the other rogues as they pulled away their own dripping layers of cloaks and coats and hung them to dry out a bit.

 

The Hero of Ferelden wasn't quite like all the stories had made him out to be. Myths about the man being an elf ten feet tall, who could freeze your blood in your veins with just a stare were obvious fabrications, but Varric hadn't known quite to expect... though it certainly wasn't this. Just an elf, a little over five and a half feet tall, with a thick brown braid that hung down his back. Slender, as both rogues and elves tended to be, and dressed in dark navy leathers, shoulder guards emblazoned with grey griffons marking him as a Warden. Finely crafted silverite daggers on his hips, he looked like any other Grey Warden rogue, rather than 'the man Himself'.

 

He was looking so intently, as the blonde haired elf fussed quietly over the brunette, that Varric hadn't even noticed that Isabela had sidled up next to him until her words whispered quietly in his ear, “Ogle him any longer, and you'll have Zev asking after your intentions...” Her plump lips pursed in amusement as she waggled her eyebrows at him and chuckled.

 

Varric only grunted, and shook his head, “'Bela, I'm a writer, I have to pay attention to these things. Don't meet the Hero of Ferelden every day, I gotta take in the details so I know what to embellish when someone asks!” It was a good enough excuse anyway. He'd met enough heroes that he didn't need anyone to know he still got starstruck on occasion. Besides, this was a man who was going to lead away the three best friends Varric had ever known. It was only right that the dwarf got a good read on him first.

 

“So where is he?” It was the Warden-Commander, Dairren Tabris, who interrupted the pair, his rich tenor voice somewhat shocking and strange when paired with his rough exterior.

 

“In the next room,” Varric waved his hand to an open doorway, “He's asleep, or at least was a few minutes ago.” All four of them made their way over to the other room; it wasn't much, given the modesty of the hovel they were in. Truth be told, the 'bedroom' had little more than a large straw pallet, a couple of crates turned on their sides for a wardrobe, and an empty barrel serving as a table where a small lamp burned.

 

And Anders was indeed asleep. Laying on his side on the straw pallet, the mage was bundled snugly between the similarly slumbering Fenris, and Garrett Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall. The arms and legs of all three men were tangled together, with the bulkier Hawke spooning the slender blonde from behind, while the elf pressed chest to chest against him, his white head tucked beneath Anders' chin.

 

“We should join in,” Isabela murmured in quiet amusement, “Make it a real 'cuddle puddle'.”

 

Zevran smiled as he caught sight of them, snuggled so warmly together as they were, “They look so sweet like this, don't they _mi corazon_? I want to gobble them up right here,” the Antivan practically purred, earning him an eyeroll from his lover, and a wide grin from the Rivani pirate. 

 

“And he really did it?” Tabris it seemed was still quite of a single mind, his hazel eyes focused intently on Anders. “For sure? Was it him? Or was it Justice?”

 

Varric could only sigh, shrugging almost absently. He couldn't blame Tabris for hoping that it had been that spirit, and not Anders. Varric kept hoping for that himself. “I can't really say, Warden. I'd like to think that it was Justice; Blondie spent so much time helping innocent people, and not so innocent. I have a hard time reconciling that person and one that would kill Chantry sisters and simple bystanders. I know that he felt backed into a corner though.”

 

“And Justice now?”

 

“As far as Blondie's said, Justice is 'sleeping'. Said once the explosion went off, he retreated. Not sure if that means its wounded or content or what. Didn't know spirits COULD be content...”

 

“They can't,” Dairren shook his head, his braid swinging slowly behind him, “Certainly not Justice, in any case. Something to think about.” The Warden-Commander frowned, but continued, “Luckily, I'm _relatively_ certain Justice doesn't mean me any harm. Or at least, he never did before.” Pausing again, the elf glanced down at Varric, “I know you want me to bring all three of them with me, for their own safety, as well as the city's.” It was hard to miss the pain in the dwarf's eyes as he looked at his three closest friends, “I'm willing to do so, we've enough room on the ship. Just a warning – if anyone comes after us: guards, templars, secular officials... I have no jurisdiction. If they're in trouble for helping Anders, I can't help them beyond lying about knowing where they are. I can only protect Anders... legally anyway. And even that's a little shaky.”

 

Varric nodded slowly, “I get it. They're not Wardens, and so not 'Warden Business'. They'll be alright, they can take care of themselves. But Blondie won't do well without them... and vice versa.”

 

“Alright then. Go on and wake them up. We don't have much time before we have to leave again, and I'd like to get stashed away on our ship without having to run for it.” Tabris waved his hand towards the slumbering trio, loathe to be the one to do it himself. The elves turned around and slipped back to the hovel's main room, along with Varric, leaving Isabela to wake them by herself, all three men figuring she'd receive a far better reception than they.

 

While they waited for Hawke, Fenris, and Anders to get up and prepare to leave, Zevran and Dairren stood by the lone window of the shack, mirroring each other with their arms crossed over their chests, staring out into the grey streets, their pointed ears twitching at the sound of rain pattering on the glass.

 

“Listen, I just wanted to thank you,” Varric finally grumbled as he stepped up beside them, stuffing his meaty hands in his duster's pockets, “I don't have much in the way of family anymore, 'cept these guys and... well, even after all the bullshit over the years, and the shit Blondie's done... I don't know what I'd do if something were to happen to them. So I just wanted to say thank you, and that I appreciate it. Sincerely.”

 

– ** – ** –

 

Within the hour, they were gone, and Varric found himself alone in that Lowtown hovel, staring out into the rain. So quickly it seemed, everything in his life had gone away. His security. His friends. His family. It had hardly been a week, and it had all disappeared into the sheets of water that fell in Kirkwall.

 

Anders, Fenris, and Hawke were gone, spirited away back to Ferelden with Warden-Commander Tabris and Zevran. Isabela was sailing them there, and Merrill had gone with her, the templar ridden streets of Kirkwall too dangerous for a mage like her. Only Aveline remained in the city, far too busy trying to restore order, he doubted she even slept.

 

Varric was alone. Not for the first time, mind, but alone he was. Frowning, the dwarf set about dousing the fire in the stove, and pulling his oiled canvas cloak over his jacket before he stepped out into the deluge himself, locking the hovel's door behind him.

 

Walking back to his suite at the Hanged Man was a lonely affair; there was no one to tell stories or jokes to. No one to make plans with. No one to ask after, to make sure they had enough food, or to see if they needed company. But despite that icy, desolate feeling settling in his broad chest, a smile tugged at Varric's lips, even as he ducked his head against the pelting rain. His family was safe, and that's all that mattered.

 

“I do appreciate it, Warden,” He murmured to himself, his own words hardly audible over the din of raindrops falling around him, “More than you know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt off writing this whole thing, but wanted to get it out there, what happened in 'my canon' after the explosion to Anders, Fenris, and Hawke.


	7. 'Perfect'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This came from a tumblr prompt list. The prompt given to me by star--nymph was "Tender kisses when one brings home flowers for the other" for Inquisitor Myron Lavellan and Dorian. Just a short, fluffy drabble :)
> 
> Including a piece of fan art I have for them together -- the art was drawn by @ineffablewitch on tumblr

Myron climbed the stairs to his chambers slowly, gritting his teeth at the ache in his back. It had been a long, hard trip; a trip to Emprise du Lion rough in the best of circumstances, but now it was worse. It was cold and barren even still, the frigid weather making the rebuilding of Sahrnia slow to a crawl. Not to mention the red lyrium that continued to pop up. He was exhausted, hungry, aching, and cross.  
  
Not to mention disappointed. While he normally brought his lover with him on such long trips, he had not this time. On the rare occasions Dorian stayed in the stronghold though, the man usually met him at the stables upon arrival. Myron had been looking forward to it especially this time. Despite the Tevinter’s list of complaints and grievances no matter what locale they found themselves in, the elf found himself missing the man dearly.  
  
Unfortunately, Dorian had not been waiting for him. Myron dawdled around the stables for nearly ten minutes before he was shooed off by Master Dennett, and too tired to go gallivanting around Skyhold in search of his missing paramour, he’d made his way straight to his quarters.  
  
Eyes down, focused on the stone floor in front of his feet, for once the mage managed to get a jump on him. “Ahem,” A familiar voice huffed in front of him, and slowly Myron drug his gaze upwards. There, standing in the soft light of the setting sun, was Dorian.  
  
Despite the fact that his arms were folded crossly over his chest, and his bottom lip stuck out in something of a pout, seeing him there waiting for him made warmth spread through Myron’s chest. A rare, wide smile slowly spread across the Inquisitor’s face as he stood and simply took in the sight of him, his bow, quiver, and pack dropping absently to the floor.  
  
“Ma Theneras…” He breathed, barely audible as his long strides hurried him over to sweep Dorian into his arms. Embracing him fiercely, Myron smiled more at the undignified squeak his lover made as he squeezed him, but took pity enough to loosen his hold. “Ma Theneras, I’ve something for you…”  
  
Dorian meanwhile managed to yank himself out of his lover’s embrace, huffing loudly once again as he straightened his robes with as much mock-indignation as he could manage, “Was that really necessary? You’ve only been gone a week and a half, there was no need to–”  
  
The mage cut off as his grey eyes widened, pupils dilating as he saw what his lover now held. In Myron’s right palm, carefully pulled from his hip pouch, was an exquisite flower. A beautiful bell of pale blue, the lines of petals as dark as the night sky, the blossom practically sparkled in the evening light. The sweet, heavenly scent of the bloom tickled his nose delicately, as he finally managed to stutter out, “Is that a… a Winter’s Bell?” The man could scarcely believe it; this was one of the rarest flowers in Thedas, and yet here Myron stood with it in his hand as if it were a dandelion he’d plucked from the training yard.  
  
“You said they were your favorite…” Myron’s dark eyes flicked down to the flower in his hand, brows drawing together a little as he worried, “Was this… have I disappointed you?” Looking back up to Dorian’s face, Myron’s smile began to slowly fade.  
  
“Oh Amatus… “ Dorian sighed as he stepped closer again, reaching one hand up to trail his fingers along the elf’s jaw, “It’s perfect.” Tilting his head as he drew near, the mage pressed his lips gently against Myron’s. He kissed him as sweetly as he knew how, a desperate attempt to explain with his actions the depth of emotion he could not put in words.

 


	8. After Saving the Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little fluffy drabble, prompted by someone on tumblr. They wanted to see another Myron x Dorian, so I chose the dancing scene at the Winter Palace. Just a short little blerb.

“There was an ancient dowager looking for you, said she had twelve daughters. I told her you'd left already,” Dorian's voice piped up behind Myron as he leaned against his hands, gripping the stone rail of the balcony where he found refuge at the Winter Palace. “You can thank me later, or now,” The mage continued as he stepped up beside the Inquisitor. Mimicking the elf's posture, he leaned forward a little as his dark head turned to glance over Myron's face. “But you look lost in thought. Something on your mind?” He leaned in a little, allowing his upper arm to brush against Myron's.

 

“I just wish...” Myron sighed as he looked up at the starry sky, “I wish I could have reasoned with the Duchess. She didn't have to die.” Myron hated killing. He knew there were times he had to. He'd been in enough skirmishes by now after all. There were situations where it was kill or be killed. But this hadn't been one of them. Florianne didn't have to do what she'd done. And she didn't have to attack. Myron had begun killing when he was hardly more than a lad, and he hated every single death by his hands. Even those of Venatori.

 

“There you go, think you can save everyone,” Dorian waved a hand, and turned more fully to face Myron, resting on his elbow, “Some people make bad choices. Don't dwell.” The mage gave him a small, sympathetic smile before he straightened up, perking up a little. He let his smile grow to a grin, “What you need is a distraction,” Dorian paused to raise one gloved finger, “I have just the thing,” Sweeping his hand out with a flourish, he held it out to Myron and smirked, “Let's dance.”

 

For a long moment, Myron couldn't do much except gaze at the mage with a quirked brow. Dorian had been prim and rather distant through this whole ordeal; he'd not allowed Myron to linger too long in the garden with him, had deftly avoided standing too closely, or allowing their hands to brush. He'd insisted that it was for Myron's own good of course – 'The Inquisitor' didn't need the stains fraternizing with the 'evil Tevinter Magister' would put on on his reputation... he had enough to worry about as it was.

 

The thought to deny him passed for a moment, a flash of childish spite surging through him, but thankfully didn't linger. Instead, Myron reached out to take Dorian's outstretched hand, and stepped close to him, his arm winding around the mage's waist and pulling him flush against him. “I was hoping you'd ask...” Myron's smooth, baritone voice dropped even lower, and his lips pulled into their own grin as he felt Dorian shiver in his arms.

 

“Well this is entirely unfair,” Dorian allowed Myron to lead, and they began to move in a slow, simple waltz to the music the drifted out of the open balcony doors from the ballroom.

 

“What isn't fair, Dorian?” Myron kept his smile, and his low, husky tone as he guided Dorian through the easy steps of the dance, his dark eyes meeting grey.

 

“Speaking like that. _Looking_ like that.” Dorian sniffed lightly, as if put out.

 

“Looking like this? The 'Wild Dalish Savage' who they couldn't force into boots?”

 

“Well... yes. Look at you. While the rest of us look like overgrown Satinalia nutcrackers, you look...” Dorian's eyes dropped down to look at Myron's chest for a moment before turning them back to gaze into his eyes, “Unstoppable. On top of being astonishingly attractive. It's not bloody fair.” He tried his best to grouse and huff.

 

And Myron couldn't deny that he'd felt relief when he hadn't been forced into those crimson wool monstrosities that the other members of the Inquisition were. As Inquisitor, he was allowed to stand out. Not that his own attire was anything less than elegant and expensive. His leggings were made from the softest calfskin leather he'd every had his hands on, dark brown and stamped in a herringbone pattern. His tunic was a rich emerald silk, almost glimmering in the light of the Winter Palace. It was a sleeveless garment, showing the toned muscles of his upper arms, while Myron's forearms were covered by decorative arm-guards of braided lambskin leather. With his long dreadlocks pulled away from his tattooed face, neatly arranged and tied into a low tail with a bright yellow tie, the Inquisitor stood out from the crowd to say the least, even excepting the fact that he was an elf.

 

And so he only chuckled lowly, pulling Dorian even more snugly into his arms, “And here I thought I was dressed specially so that I had a hope to keep attention off of you,  _Ma Theneras_ .” Leaning his head in, and tipping his chin upwards, Myron's full lips lingered just a few inches from Dorian's as his voice dropped even more, “I know  _I've_ had a hard time taking my eyes off you...”

 

Dorian's eyes softened, and he momentarily looked down, letting out a small breath, “The things you say...” The tremor in his voice, so small and infinitesimal, tugged at Myron's heartstrings, and as vulnerable grey eyes finally dared to look up and meet his own, the words came tumbling from the elf before he could even process them.

 

“ _Ar lath ma.”_ The Inquisitor even surprised himself with that confession, but he didn't let his courage waver now, _“Ma Vhenan...”_ Daring now, Myron leaned closer, and brought his lips to Dorian's, pressing a brief, but tender kiss there. _“Ma Theneras,”_ his deep voice was breathy by the end, but he kissed Dorian again anyway, tightening his embrace around the man. _“Ma Serannas, Ma Theneras._ Thank you...”

 

Slightly dazed, Dorian looked down the inch or two needed to gaze into Myron's dark eyes, “What... what for?” The poor man seemed somewhat lost and confused, his breath shaky, and voice whispered and weak. By now, their dancing had slowed to a gentle sway, only vaguely to the rhythm of the orchestra inside, making it easy for Myron to lift his hands, and delicately cup his lover's face.

 

“For being exactly what I needed.”

 


	9. "Imposing"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a fluffy prompt from tumblr - a headcanon divergent/AU version of little Ilensul Lavellan (from my other fic), as an Inquisitor's companion to the lovely @ironbullsmissingeye 's Inquisitor Shokrakar Adaar. I've got a number of these little drabbles with Shok and Ilensul, and I love them together. They're cute. I'll be posting the ones I've written, rather than what Shok's author has written, but I encourage you to check out ironbullsmissingeye on tumblr - they're a great fic writer!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference - Ilensul had rather impulsively kissed Shokrakar just prior to this ficlet.

Ilensul was failing miserably at avoiding Shokrakar. All over Skyhold, the Inquisitor seemed to show up where-ever Ilen had managed to find himself. In The Herald’s Rest, in the dining hall, the library.

The Qunari never expressly _said_ he was looking for the elf of course, he always seemed to have legitimate reasons for being where he was. Without fail, Shok  greeted him with kindness, a warm smile on his face that only seemed to grow whenever Ilen’s cheeks would begin to warm, and his words stumble. He’d stand close to the mage, listening almost too attentively, giving the same little gestures that he had before – a shoulder pat here, a hand squeeze there – now suddenly full of questioning and encouragement that had never been there previous. It kept up until, with long ears burning red, Ilen would manage to fumble an excuse and flee.

The bashful little elf was still reeling with his mortification at his own ‘forwardness’ from days before. While most perhaps would have thought his tender little kiss sweetly chaste, Ilen saw it as downright brazen. He’d never just… initiated a kiss like that. Especially not when he had had no indication that the other would even welcome such a gesture.

He’d not been _afraid_ per se; Ilensul was confident that Shok would not be cruel to him, regardless of whatever disinterest he might have. But it was rare that the little mage gathered enough courage to put himself out there, so to speak. And now that he had done so once, he trembled at the thought of doing so again.

He _couldn’t_. He shouldn’t have in the first place, he was sure. But the little spark that had motivated him the first time had become a tiny flame, sure and steady warm, grown brighter as his mind’s eye recalled more clearly the response the Qunari had had.

Such thoughts occupied his mind thoroughly in the quiet of the empty infirmary. Seated on an empty table, allowing his legs to dangle over the edge, his small, bare feet swinging, the elf rolled bandages slowly, lost in thoughts and daydreams he’d no doubt rather die than admit openly.

He was so preoccupied in fact that Ilen didn’t even seemed to notice Shok had entered the room until the Qunari was almost upon him. Unable to completely smother the squeak of surprise that escaped him as he jumped in his seat, the bandage in his hand dropped to the floor and rolled away.

“Oh! Inquisitor! How did you know where– I mean, is there… is there something wrong?” The elf babbled, scrambling to straighten his posture, moving to get down from the table, to stand up, stilled only by the large hand that came to settle on his shoulder.

“How did I know where to find you?” The Inquisitor’s silvery eyes sparkled in amusement, “Is there someplace other than an infirmary that a spirit healer might be more likely found?” His lips quirked in a rather pleased smirk, head tilting slightly to the side as he looked down to regard the healer, “Have you been avoiding me, Ilensul?”

The now quite familiar flush of color rose to the crests of the elf’s cheeks, creeping slowly up his ears, but he managed to will himself not to look away, if barely. “I-I… uh… I might have been. I just…” His dark eyes narrowed momentarily, little nose wrinkling in his frustration, “I didn’t want to… you know… _impose_. Like I did before…” His stuttered starts and stops only seemed to aggravate him, as he fought for the confidence that Shok seemed to manage without trouble.

And so distracted by his internal self-deprecation was he that the elf didn’t even notice that Shok had stepped closer, his large hand moving from his shoulder to slide down his arm, and then back up, until he was startled from his daze by the warm palm that now cupped his cheek.

“Impose?” The Qunari’s large, horned head shook slowly, his smile gentling as he leaned down, “I don’t think that’s what I’d call it. A surprise maybe. Enjoyable, sweet, both yes. But an ‘ _imposition_ ’? Certainly not.” One of the older man’s eyebrows ticked upward a fraction as he continued to gaze down at the elf, as if thinking something over. “Though maybe I need to see again… just to be sure.” And with that, he leaned in.

The Qunari’s kiss was different than Ilen’s, steadier and passionate, and just forceful enough to spread warmth sizzling down to Ilensul’s toes. But as forceful as it was, when Shok’s lips swallowed Ilen’s responding whimper, he pulled back enough to break the contact, and speak, his silver gaze flicking about the little elf’s pretty face for signs of distress, ready to comfort and apologize, in the case that he had perhaps gone too far, “I’m sorry, are you sure you–”

Thankfully, the Inquisitor didn’t get a chance to finish that statement. Emboldened, Ilensul’s little hands came up to frame Shok’s face, slender fingers combing through his beard as he pulled him forward the few inches necessary to eagerly bring their lips together once more.


	10. "I can't stop thinking about you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Shok/Ilensul fluffy drabble

Coming back from any mission was an ordeal for almost everyone involved. ‘Decompressing’ was certainly a real thing. And a necessary one for every member of Inquisitor Shokrakar’s ‘inner circle’.

Forced into proximity for sometimes weeks at a time, everyone needed time to reacquaint themselves with their homes in Skyhold. Their sleep schedules needed to be adjusted again, clothing laundered, projects reviewed, and of course reports written.

All perfect activities to do alone, giving everyone the solitude necessary to perk their spirits and restore their humor after so much time on the road. Typically, they were given at least three days to do with as they pleased before anyone would come to ‘bother them’ with company or new work. 

This ‘alone time’ was doubly important this time around. Almost the entirety of the Inquisition had gone to the Winter Palace, and immediately after, the Inquisitor had left _again_ , heading towards the Western Approach with Dorian, Varric, and Blackwall in tow, just itching to meet Hawke and Stroud. Now that the threat to the Empress was dealt with (or rather, the late _Empress_ was dealt with), Shokrakar had been eager to find out just _what_ was going on with the Grey Wardens.

Now back at Skyhold after three weeks, the Inquisitor wasn’t even granted a full twenty-four hours before quiet raps echoed from the door to his quarters. And then again two hours later, when the first attempt for his attention had been soundly ignored by the sleepy Qunari.  
  
This time however, Ilen wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. And he had help. The sound of clattering metal echoed in the empty hallway that stood between the door and the stairs leading up to Shok’s chambers proper, and he could finally hear it – Ilensul’s soft voice, murmuring to his accomplice, “Thank you Cole. I’ll take it from here.” 

The little elf had been on hand for the party’s arrival back at Skyhold, as he usually was. All the better to take care of any stray injuries as soon as possible of course, and more than once it had been a relief to see the spirit healer standing there after a long, painful journey.

But this time around, he’d been practically swept up by Dorian towards the infirmary, an endless stream of complaints already on the Tevinter’s lips: sunburn, raw chafing from far too much sand in unmentionable places, saddle sores! All Ilen had been able to do was glance over his shoulder almost mournfully to Shokrakar as he was lead away.

Now though, Ilen had finally been able to free himself from the rest of the Inquisition’s clutches, and with Cole assistance, managed to break into the Inquisitor’s quarters. 

Several long minutes passed however before Ilen managed to actually make it to the top of the stairs, his footsteps almost painfully slow and careful, his burden too heavy for him to simply run as he wanted to.  
  
A large tray was balanced in the elf’s little hands, held out rather stiffly in front of him. It seemed at times that Ilen knew everyone’s eating habits better than they themselves, for he’d correctly guessed that Shokrakar had skipped his meals since arriving home, eager for time alone and away from the grumbling of his friends.  
  
Though just a little exasperated by Ilen’s intrusion, the Qunari couldn’t help but give at least a small smile in response to the elf’s eager offerings, and enthusiastic greeting, “I… I brought this for you. I-I mean, hello! I didn’t want to disturb you but… I know you haven’t eaten yet, and I thought you might…” Ilensul’s rapid speech stumbled over itself as he hurried to explain himself, keeping his eyes purposely focused on the heavy tray as he inched towards the low table in front of the nearby couch where Shok was seated.  
  
It was filled with all sorts of goodies, the elf seeming to attempt in sating almost any palate. A bowl of stew from the Herald’s Rest, half a loaf of bread, a plate of cheeses and grapes all crowded around the tray. There was even a large mug of steaming chocolate (courtesy of The Iron Bull no doubt… though who knew what the little healer had to promise to get some of _that_ precious stuff).  
  
Shokrakar reached out once Ilen finally got close enough, taking the tray of food with one hand to set it on the table, while slipping the other around the elf’s slender waist to draw him closer, into something of a side-hug. “Calm down, Ilen. Deep breaths.” The Qunari’s smile grew as he demonstrated, breathing slowly in and out for several beats, “There we go…” and then grinned as he felt the elf mimic him, relaxing just a little against him. “Now then… what’s got you so worked up, hm?”

That earned him a pretty blush, Shok was pleased to see, as color rose to the crests of Ilen’s cheeks. “Hmmm?” He prodded again, giving the elf a gentle tug to guide him onto the couch, nearly in the Qunari’s lap as he coaxed him closer.

“I just– I don’t want to impose…” Ilen’s nose wrinkled at Shok’s responding chuckle.

“Didn’t we already have a discussion about ‘imposing’? I’d tell you if you were, you know that.”

“Y-yes, you did but…” Ilen trailed off for a moment as he chewed nervously on his bottom lip, sharp white teeth turning it bright pink with his worry, “I just… I can’t stop thinking about you. I haven’t been since you–since you left after Halamshiral.” The poor dear sounded as if he were in a Chantry confessional.

Shok’s gentle laugh only made the elf’s nose wrinkle more, though he relaxed as the large arm around him pulled him closer, and Shok’s head dipped to press a kiss to the mage’s temple, “Good.”


	11. After Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER Shok/Ilensul drabble. I know I know 3 in a row. I like them. Next ficlet published will feature a new character though!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt for 'comforting kisses on tear-stained cheeks'. A very short drabble.

Adamant had been a nightmare, truly, even outside of the Fade. The demons, the Wardens, the choking fear of battle. Worse still for Ilensul, not knowing what was happening with Shokrakar. The Inquisitor had hugged him, a strong if brief embrace for a few precious moments before he’d shoved the little elf away with a repeat of his previous orders: stay away from the front lines.

No amount of arguing or danger had changed the Qunari’s mind about that, no matter how valid Ilen’s argument had been. Regardless of how necessary it was to have a real healer at the Inquisitor’s side during the battle, Shok would not allow Ilen to be placed in the thick of the battle. If the spirit healer’s skills weren’t necessary for the army, the Qunari would have gladly left the elf back in Skyhold where it was safe.

And so Ilen had been forced to watch as Shok dove into the fray with the Iron Bull, Varric, and Dorian, fighting his way through the ancient fortress. To follow the twin pairs of horns move through the fortress courtyards and along the battlements, the only things visible through the mass of soldiers and monsters. He had to witness the dragon, the explosion as Warden-Commander Clarel used the last of her strength, and the fall, to see Shok, his party, Serah Hawke, and Warden Stroud plummet into the abyss.

After seeing such a thing, one might have expected that in the aftermath, with Shok safe, and the pair ensconced securely in the Inquisitor’s tent, that it would have been the sensitive elf who needed to be held. Coddled even.

But here in privacy, alone at last with thick felts and canvases shutting out the Inquisition, and the rest of the world, Inquisitor Shokrakar Adaar wept. Held in his ‘lover’s’ slender arms, the Qunari’s long held walls crumbled, and in Ilensul’s gentle embrace, sobbed quietly as he buried his face in the silken mass of the elf’s unbraided hair. He allowed himself to be comforted by Ilen’s whispered words, by the delicate scents of lemon verbena and elfroot that clung to the elf’s skin and hair, and the sensations of soft hands as they stroked his own hair, his horns, his cheeks.

“You’re here. You’re safe. I’m safe,” Fingers slid under Shok’s bearded chin to tilt his head up, so that silver eyes could meet brown, “Mir Elgara…” Leaning in, Ilen pressed his lips to one of the Qunari’s cheeks as he murmured, “…Vhenan. Amatus. We’re alive. We’re here.” The elf’s dark head tilted so he reach the other cheek, tenderly kissing away stray tears, “We’re together, Mir Elgara.” A tiny smile, full of emotion, twitched at Ilensul’s lips as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the corner of Shokrakar’s lips, his breath warm against him with his whispers, “I’ve got you.”


End file.
